


Masquerade

by Mamselle Miss (mardisoir)



Series: Kinktober 2018 [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Kinktober 2018, M/M, Masks, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Voice Kink, slight exhibitionism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 10:49:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16596443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mardisoir/pseuds/Mamselle%20Miss
Summary: Montparnasse’s mask is leather, supple and soft, stained a red so deep that in the dim light it appears black.





	Masquerade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Moonfreckle (Sunfreckle)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunfreckle/gifts).



This far from the ballroom the great house is almost silent. 

The quarry that was sought is tucked out of sight in a pocket, concealed deep within Claquesous’ cloak. The bundle of letters had been easy to find, almost disappointingly so. Foolish, to put material so ripe for blackmail in writing.

Montparnasse lounges indolently against the post of a bed large enough to sleep five with room to spare and Claquesous watches him rub the velvet hangings between appreciative fingers. He appears every inch the young nobleman in repose, only looking very closely indeed would you see the way his coat has been carefully patched, how his collar is worn but has never been allowed to fray.

They should leave now. The job is done and they were not followed when they slipped away from the revels. The gilded decor, overflowing liquor, and scandalously ostentatious costumes of the bourgeoisie had amused Montparnasse but Claquesous has no desire to return to the raucous entertainments taking place downstairs. It would be sensible to go, to exit by an unattended servants passage and vanish into the night.

Instead, Claquesous finds himself asking, “Would you like to return to the party?”

Montparnasse looks over at him, a curl to his mouth that means he is arching an eyebrow beneath the mask he wears. “Are you so eager to dance? I assumed you’d want to leave.” He settles on the edge of the bed, regarding Claquesous curiously from the half-shadow. “I thought the masquerade unsettled you.”

Claquesous is grateful, as he often is, that his expression is fully hidden from view. “Why should it unsettle me?”

Montparnasse reclines back on his elbows and licks his lips thoughtfully before he answers. “Perhaps you dislike not keeping the advantage of anonymity purely for yourself.”

For all his blithe arrogance, Montparnasse has ever been keenly observant.

“You seemed to be enjoying it.”

“I was,” Montparnasse agrees easily. “I see now why you like it so much. It is a peculiar thrill, to walk unseen and unsuspected amongst your victims.”

“Not quite unseen.”

“Unknown,” Montparnasse corrects himself. “With a mask on,” he says quietly, “you might be anyone.”

Montparnasse’s mask is leather, supple and soft, stained a red so deep that in the dim light it appears black. Claquesous steps closer and, with two fingers pressed beneath his chin, lifts his face towards the flickering candlelight. In the hollows, Montparnasse’s eyes are pits of fathomless dark. He tilts his head and smiles, a flash of white teeth like a warning.

Claquesous slips the tip of one finger beneath the edge of the mask where it sits flush against his cheekbone and traces its elegant curve up over the sharp line of a patrician nose, smoothing a loose lock of dark hair aside. The leather is warm and smooth but it cannot compare to the soft skin beneath it.

“Vain creature.” Claquesous keeps his voice pitched low so that Montparnasse must lean close to hear it which he does, pressing his cheek against Claquesous’ palm. “Of course you’d choose this one.”

The mask is a Colombina. It serves nothing to conceal, only to draw the eyes of others. A tease, it leaves all of Montparnasse’s lower face naked to the world. No-one who’d met him before could doubt his identity, seeing that mouth.

“I ought to put you in a Moretta,” Claquesous muses aloud, pressing his thumb to the edge of Montparnasse’s lower lip.

“What’s that?”

“A plain black mask that covers the face. The wearer holds it in place by gripping a button on the inside between their teeth.”

Montparnasse leans forward, smoothly insinuating himself into Claquesous’ personal space. “Now,” he says, his smile widening. “Wouldn’t that be a terrible waste.”

They’d locked the bedroom door behind them when they entered, to avoid discovery while they searched for the letters Babet had sent them to retrieve, but Claquesous thinks Montparnasse might have had other things on his mind too.

“Which would you miss more, do you suppose?” Montparnasse’s clever hands come to rest briefly on Claquesous’ hips before wandering beneath his cloak. “The sight of my face or the sound of my voice?”

“Neither,” Claquesous says flatly and smiles to himself when Montparnasse scoffs, what little is visible of his expression the picture of offended outrage.

“Lies,” he hisses, his eyes glittering in the candlelight and his fingertips digging bruises into Claquesous’ side. “I know what you’re doing, you know.”

“And what might that be?”

Montparnasse tugs on Claquesous’ waist and he stumbles an inelegant step forward ’til he’s stood between Montparnasse’s conveniently spread thighs.

“You think you can goad me into giving you what you want.”

“Is it working?”

The rustle of fabric as Montparnasse unfastens Claquesous trousers is a clear indication that it is.

“Be quiet,” he mutters and ducks his head to finally put that mouth of his to good use.

Montparnasse has many talents, most of which are not fit to recommend him to the company they had both been keeping earlier in the evening. In this, Claquesous thinks, he is outshone only in his skill with a sharp blade. Both gifts he honed in dark corners and quiet alleyways and Montparnasse is as focused in the act as he ever is when he takes a life. He gives himself over to it with the same vicious, indulgent joy.

“I don’t think that’s what you want, truly,” Claquesous says, one hand cupping Montparnasse’s jaw and the other combing the silk of his hair between his fingers.

Montparnasse makes a curious sound and then does something with his tongue that makes Claquesous curse under his breath.

“I think,” he says, working to keep his voice steady even roughened with desire as it is. “I think that you like it when I speak.”

Montparnasse, ever communicative even otherwise occupied, lets out a little huff of air through his nose, a disdainfully dismissive sound.

“You do.” Claquesous allows himself to take over the rhythm Montparnasse had set, rolling his hips gently at first, and then more roughly when no complaint arises. “You’d like me to tell you how artful you are at this, how good it feels to have your mouth on me. You want to hear how handsome you appear in the candlelight, how sinful your lips look all swollen and used.”

At that, Montparnasse disentangles himself from Claquesous’ hands and pulls back to look up towards his still-concealed face.

“Do they?” he asks with feigned innocence, his hair charmingly mussed and his mouth as tempting and wicked as ever.

“Obscene,” Claquesous confirms and Montparnasse preens. They’re still close enough to share breath. “Would you like me to elaborate?” he asks, just as footsteps echo in the hallway beyond the chamber door freezing them both in place. The footsteps hurry closer, pausing somewhere in the corridor beyond the room, and then there’s the faint sound of voices partaking in muted conversation.

Montparnasse draws Claquesous onto the bed with him and lets down the heavy bed hangings. “Before we were interrupted,” he says in a hushed voice, fingers coming to rest just beneath the edge of Claquesous’ Bauta, “I believe you had something to tell me.”

“I’ll tell you all,” Claquesous swears, his own hands occupied with untying Montparnasse’s cravat. “But you must promise to be very, very quiet.”

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted on mamsellemiss.tumblr.com ♡


End file.
